


Untitled (Champagne)

by melforbes



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melforbes/pseuds/melforbes
Summary: Tumblr prompt for everydaymsr, "things you said when you were drunk."





	

Bordeaux-colored fabric, long and sleek, strapless so that it showed her creamy collarbones and just a few of the freckles on her back; on a hanger, the dress would've appeared mediocre, but on her, it transformed her into an icon. Above its bust was her cross, golden and dangling and warm in contrast to her skin; the ebb and flow of her neck stole his focus as she spoke to her colleagues, as she went on and on about theoretical chemistry, whatever that was. His throat tight and his vision blurring, he watched her painted lips - a soft pink in color, sheer enough to make her enhanced beauty look natural but deep enough to scar the champagne flute she held - curl into a smile. Though the ballroom around them was marble and gold, she held, by far, the most timeless elegance in the room.

And she was wearing her wedding band, the engagement ring bumped up against it. His own band weighed heavily on his finger, its sensation unfamiliar though he had worn it ever since she first pressed it onto his hand, ever since she looked at him with a gaze of pure, unabashed commitment in city hall. _It's artificial now,_  he thought as she laughed at some older man's - a coworker maybe? - joke.

He couldn't remember what event this was exactly, hadn't been invited so much as casually forced to attend. Childhood Cancer Initiative, maybe, but he probably made that title up in his head. Scully often went to fundraisers for Cystic Fibrosis research, so maybe this was one of those. All he knew was that she'd been invited plus-one, and because none of her coworkers knew about their currently messy - or, rather, always messy but now particularly messy - personal lives, and because she didn't want anyone to ask too many questions regarding God's place in her derailed marriage, she'd asked Mulder to join her, to be friendly for just the evening. Of course, he'd obliged.

She finished her glass of champagne, so he reached out, asked silently to take the flute from her; by the uncomfortable glance she gave him, he knew she hadn't expected such formalities, but she handed him the glass anyway. When a server passed by with an empty tray, he set the glass down, watched as her lipstick stains drifted farther and farther away from him.

"Oh, this is your husband?" some woman asked Scully, so Mulder forced his vision into focus, looked forward at a couple who screamed _Rich And Unhappy_  by appearance alone. The husband, about ten or fifteen years older than the wife, spoke with an arthritic slowness that felt frustrating in conversation and was likely more frustrating in marriage; the wife wore dark eye makeup and an ugly but likely overpriced black gown, complete with feathers and glitter. Her necklace seemed rented, massive jewels hanging from her too-thin collarbones. As Scully put on her biggest, most stunning smile, Mulder knew what to do.

"Yes," he said with a grin, held out a strong hand. "Fox Mulder. Lovely to meet you."

The woman shook his hand while holding only his fingers, while seeming more like a bird than a human; the awkwardness wasn't lost on Scully, who bit her lip and likely prayed for damnation or salvation, whichever would come before anyone could open their mouths again.

"And what do you do for a living?" the woman asked, her voice like that of a mild harpy. The husband beside her tottered on his feet as though a strong gust of wind could bring his geriatric body to its demise maybe two or three weeks before his wife had planned for it to do so.

"He's-"

"I'm a novelist," Mulder explained before Scully could say whatever she'd been about to say, anything from _unemployed_  to _stay at home dad_  - a most blatant lie - to _figuring things out_  to _retired._  Back when things were good for Scully and him, they used to play this game at her fundraisers, make up a career for him and then laugh about it later on in the evening while he felt her up in whatever ritzy hotel they'd been in's bathroom. However, she looked down uncomfortably, wasn't in the mood for games. He continued anyway. "With a name like that, you've got to do something creative, right?"

That elicited a lighthearted but ultimately forced laugh from the harpy while the husband seemed not to have heard.

"Anything I might've read?" the woman asked.

"All children's novels," he said with a smile. "All about alien explorers. Your taste is likely too refined for my work."

She laughed again, so Scully quirked a lip; though his social skills were few and far between, he was okay tonight. As a waiter brought by another tray of flutes, Scully reached for more champagne, the diamond of her ring catching light as she did so. Momentarily, he pretended she'd giddily put the jewelry on out of want and not out of social obligation.

"What a pair," the woman said, chuffed. "I hope to see you both again. If you'll excuse us."

She put a palm on her husband's back, tried to lead him somewhere else, so thankfully, even though the rest of the room was occupied with suits and gowns, he and Scully found themselves momentarily alone.

"The Kleins," she explained of the couple, then took a long - really long - sip from her glass.

"Money marriage?"

"Is there any other kind?"

With her tired eyes and soft lips, she let him know she was joking, but nonetheless, he felt his heart pound at the comment.

"Big donors," she explained. "Let's hope they don't Google you."

He shrugged, his black bowtie falling out of place, so she tapped his hand, let him take her drink while she smoothed his tie out; her fingerprints left fires on his skin, and as she took the glass back and stepped away, he wished he could undo the tie altogether, unbutton and step out for some fresh air.

"Thanks for, um," she said quietly, awkwardly. "Thanks for doing this. I know it was cowardly of me to ask, but-"

"No, it wasn't," he said, shaking his head.

Looking up at him, she met his eyes, and as he took a deep breath, his mind flashed through all of the other events like this one that they'd attended together. He saw the variety of hairstyles she wore, usually a French twist like tonight's, and he saw the way her eye makeup varied, remembered that time she forgot mascara and ended up applying it in the darkness of the car while he drove over a pothole, her laughter afterward making his heart soar despite the blackened mistake on top of her eye makeup. He could see each of the dresses she'd worn, some gold and some black, some long-sleeved and some sleeveless like this one. Most of all, he could remember all of her jewelry, all of the bracelets that dangled from her freckled wrists, all of the earrings she wore, how many of them were ones he'd given her. Tonight's earrings, elegant little gold-set amethysts, were from her forty-first birthday. He'd wrapped their box in baby-blue paper and leaned the package against a bouquet of two dozen red roses on that morning.

"My birthstone," she'd admired after opening the box.

So he'd smiled and gone along with it though he still didn't know what a _birthstone_  was.

She looked away before he could take another breath, and as she took his left hand in her right, he felt her fingers edge toward his ring like they always used to. When he glanced back at her, an effortless smile on his lips, she smirked at him, tried to make fun of herself for the gesture. Then, she downed the rest of her glass in one sip, passed the flute off to a waiter.

"This is dull," she said under her breath, her fingers still clasping his. "I hate being on display."

"You look beautiful," he offered, his tone halfway between awestruck and casual, something acceptable given their separation.

Softly, she smiled, said, "You clean up well."

He shaved for this, waited until a few hours before she would pick him up to do so; though she'd last seen him with an unkept beard, he hadn't let it grow out again for a while. In comparison to how she'd last seen him, he looked like a million bucks, his appearance nothing short of a miracle when contrasted with his shaggy and uncut hair of prior months. But she looked beautiful, like herself, rippled muscles beneath milky skin, warm and quiet eyes staring up at him.

"Why don't we head out early?" she asked, scrunched her face into a momentary smile; leaving a party early was Scully's idea of rebellion, so he smiled to himself. "Have a nightcap at my place or something. I can't bear to talk to anyone else."

And she used to do this in a different way, ask him if they could step out for a moment and then press him up against some secluded wall and have her way with his mouth, or if they'd come with others in a limousine for the bigger, more expensive events, they would find where the driver had parked, secure the partition, and as he hiked up her dress, she would undo his belt. Once, in the heart of summer, they walked a few doors down to a frozen yogurt shop and had soft-serve at midnight, her shoes kicked off and her hair falling to pieces while the teenagers who worked there looked on at this formal couple in confusion. Though he'd thought she'd forgotten this feeling, they still felt it mutually; they enjoyed each other's company more than they enjoyed any shindig they would ever attend.

Pulling her forward, he headed for the brash ballroom's exit, avoided eye contact with any rich onlookers who could possibly wonder about his wife's involvement with this foundation. As they reached the coatroom, he helped her into her jacket, pulled the keys out of her pocket as he declared, "I'm driving."

* * *

"Mulder, miracles have always been a part of science."

She popped the cap off of one of those health-food store root beers he used to indulge on occasion - if he hadn't seen that two were missing from the six-pack in her fridge before she even grabbed him one, he would've thought she'd expected him to come by - and then took a bottle of red wine from the fridge, poured herself half of a glass.

"In fact," she explained as she walked flat-footed over to the couch, her hair down and her hands clutching their drinks, "miracles are the essence of science. How would we ever find cures for the most unforgiving of diseases if we never experienced some kind of miracle? Like the milkmaids, for example. If they caught cowpox, they were immune to smallpox later in life. If that so-called miracle had never occurred, we may never have created the smallpox vaccine."

"Yeah, a _so-called_  miracle, Scully," he said as he loosened his bowtie, then took his soda. "A miracle, by definition, lacks explanation, yet you just gave an explanation!"

"The essence of science," she insisted as she sat down beside him, crossed her legs and swirled her wine, "is the pursuit of truth. And we don't know the whole truth, Mulder. We may never within either of our lifetimes."

"Speak for yourself," he said with a quirk of his brow, then took a swig of root beer.

Her apartment felt a few steps up from a dorm room, fully furnished and completely anonymous; because it lacked framed photographs and personalized decorations, it could have been anyone's home in any city. Though he knew she didn't need such a big place, her apartment had two bedrooms, the doors to both of which were tightly closed down a little hallway; her living room was cramped next to a tiny kitchen with a tiny table, and the beige carpet here was brand new. All of the apartment was some variation of oak or pale blue in color; as she kicked her feet up onto the coffee-table in front of the couch, he noticed that the buttons on the brand new TV's remote were worn down already, that her only table-book was _Wishful Drinking._  She sipped her wine, crossed her bare ankles from beneath her skirt.

"Nice pad," he said nonchalantly, and at that, she laughed boisterously and unabashedly. As he glanced to her, he saw warm redness in her cheeks, so he smiled, asked, "How drunk are you?"

"Not very." She turned her wrist so that the wine in her glass could aerate; he'd never found that doing so changed the flavor, but apparently, she did. "I'm in a good spot. Not drunk, just warm."

"But you're giggly."

"I'm comfortable!" she defended. "It's been a long week. I'm happy to be sitting down. And to not be wearing those shoes anymore."

"They were nice shoes," he shrugged as he glanced at the black peep-toe heels she'd abandoned by the front door.

"They were giving me blisters." She shook her skirt off of her feet, flexed her toes and shimmied them in front of him. "See?"

He laughed under his breath, said, "I see."

"Sorry, I'm..." she trailed off. "Maybe I'm a little drunk."

"Okay," he said.

"You can still get a ride home at some point, right?"

"Are you trying to kick me out?"

"No, no!" she said quickly. "I just know I'll be out of commission for a while. I don't want you to be stranded."

"Well, you have a second bedroom, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"You guess?"

"They give you the option for a bed or a desk in the bedrooms here," she explained. "I opted for a desk in the second bedroom."

"May I take a look?"

"Yeah, sure," she said, standing up slowly. "I'll give you the grand tour."

He took another swig of his soda, followed as she took a few steps toward the center of the living room.

"This is the living room," she announced.

"Wow," he said.

Walking over to the nearby kitchen, she stood upon the tiles there, hopped up onto her toes twice as she indicated, "This is the kitchen. Used infrequently. Least necessary spot in the whole place."

The refrigerator held two items beneath _Our Lady of Sorrows Hospital_  magnets: Bill Jr.'s family's Christmas card and the menu for a Greek restaurant that delivered.

"Now," she set her wine - that was enough for now - down on the kitchen counter, led him toward the two doors, "this is my office."

"No name on the door," he commented with a quirk of his lip.

Stepping back, she admired it with her arms akimbo and said, "You know what? That's true."

"I should've put your name on the door," he said awkwardly. "I don't know why I never did."

"It's okay," she said as she opened her office's door.

"No, it isn't," he said, shaking his head while she flicked an overhead light on.

"No matter whose name was on the door, we both know whose hard work and expertise dominated that office," she said.

"Actually, I don't think that's true."

Though the so-called office was sparse, just a desk with a new MacBook and manila folders on top of it, the place nonetheless held Scully's aura, her degrees being the only things hung on the wall. A bookshelf held a few books, mostly medical journals and recent fictional releases; a yoga mat and a few fitness accessories leaned against one wall.

"It's not much," she said with a shrug as she headed out of the room, as she left the light on.

Though she was saying something about the rest of the apartment, he tuned her out, eyed the computer; against his better judgement, he ran his fingers across the trackpad, unlocked the laptop. Though most aspects of the computer were normal, simply a web browser and some saved files along with her always-organized Excel budget sheets, he found the background, their first ever "selfie" with his then-new phone from a few years ago, disturbing. Having her smiling face - she'd thought that his attempts to use new technology were funny - and his grimace - of course, he didn't find technology funny - stare back at him made his heart pound, so before she could realize he'd dawdled, he raced out of the room, flicked the light off quickly.

"And this," she whipped the next door open, "is the bedroom."

The bedspread was beige, the bed oak, the closet white and blending into the walls; she had a dresser topped with her perfume and deodorant, so most of her makeup must've been in the bathroom. On her bedside table, she had her bright orange prescription pill-bottle, a new pair of glasses he'd never seen before, her usual glass of water, a clock, and a book by that woman who wrote _Gone Girl._  Though this room didn't look like her bedroom in her old apartment, and though this bedroom didn't look like half of their bedroom at home, it nonetheless looked like somewhere he could label as _Scully's bedroom_ , from the telltale items on the bedside-table to the no-nonsense vibe of it; he could tell that she used this room for sleep and sleep only.

"You _need_  to feel the mattress," she said as she flopped back onto the bed, her feet dangling off the side. "It's terrible."

Against any better judgement, he set his bottle down on the bedside-table, flopped back alongside her. Immediately, he cringed; the mattress was rock-like and lumpy, inconsistent and poking him in strange places.

"See?" she laughed. "It's horrible!"

"It's not _that_  bad," he lied.

"It's dreadful," she said.

Turning his head so that he could face her, he watched the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, watched the way her gold eyeshadow shone in the soft light; he felt as though he were watching her in a polaroid or through a window, for she was unmistakably Scully but in a place he didn't recognize, in a different frame of reference.

"Do you remember that mattress we bought, the first one?" he asked while he watched her soft blinks, her gentle swallows.

"Of course I do," she said with disdain, her gaze toward the ceiling. "My back hurt for weeks. We walked around like old people and popped too many Advils."

"Yeah," he remembered.

"And we had so much sex on that mattress," she said, and though her tone was alarmingly detached, she still relished in that word, _sex_ , as though she were remembering a luxury of yore. "Every single night. I was so tired at work."

"I mean, we couldn't exactly _sleep_  on that mattress," he defended awkwardly.

"Yeah. Late night boredom sex. No, that makes it sound like we didn't want to. If we couldn't sleep, then that was the next best thing."

"Admittedly, I was a little sad to see that thing go."

"Yeah, me too."

Glancing over at him, she held unspoken words in her gaze, her lip between her teeth as she looked down at him.

Softly, she admitted, "I miss you."

Letting out a long breath, he said, "I miss you too."

"There must be counselors around here," she figured. "And I'd imagine they would take my insurance."

"Yeah," he said absently, his gaze moving toward the ceiling.

"I just...you understand where I'm coming from, right?"

"Yeah," he said.

"No matter how badly we want this to be simple, it won't be."

 _Don't remind me,_  he thought.

"I never wanted this to go on as long as it has," she said. "I never expected it would."

"You never made an effort to end it either."

At that, she quickly looked away from him, so he grimaced, knew he'd said the wrong thing.

"I'm sorry," he said, closing his eyes in regret. "Fighting words. I'm not supposed to use those."

"No, it's okay," she said indifferently. "You're right. You shouldn't have to apologize for things I haven't done."

"Okay," he said uncomfortably.

She chewed her lip again while he looked toward her; her brow furrowing, she seemed in search of the proper way to express what she was feeling, but even though they could write soliloquies about existence within reports to Assistant Director Skinner, they rarely did so toward each other anymore.

"I don't know where you are right now," she said tentatively, cautiously. "I think a professional could help us reach even ground."

"I'm not sure I want a professional knowing our history," he said. Then, he took that back, said, "I don't mean to derail-"

"No, I don't want that either. I want us to have our privacy," she admitted, "but I don't know what else to do."

Looking to him, she seemed in search of answers, and though he hated talking about such things, though it made him feel sweaty and as though his heart were in his throat, he took a deep breath and gave her all of the answers he could.

"It's looking like I'll be on medication for a while, maybe even forever," he said, and though he tried to keep his tone casual, she knew him well enough to understand the gravity of his answers to her. "It's working, and it's working pretty well. I know it's just a chemical imbalance, but there's more to it, you know? You get accustomed to living a certain way, and then, you figure out that you can do things differently, but you're attached to what you currently have, and you're not sure where to begin when it comes to change."

She nodded softly, and suddenly, he could smell her perfume, could sense her essence on this bed; though he hadn't noticed it beforehand, this place smelled like her, and thankfully - though he struggled to use that word - the aroma calmed him.

"So the medication is working, and I've been working really hard to make sure it doesn't get bad again," he explained. "I'm doing okay. Well, better than okay. I didn't have to think twice about your invitation tonight, which says a lot actually. Things aren't easy, but I've gotten better at dealing with them."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked softly, the only thing she _could_  ask.

"Keep me on the insurance," he said with a humorless laugh, then shook his head. "I'm doing this on my own, which is a blessing and a curse. Probably a blessing in the end."

"Okay," she said.

"Remember Miss Rosemary from the library?" he asked, tried to both change the subject and prove his progress.

She curled her lips into a warm smile, said, "The old woman who made felted hats?"

"Yeah," he said. "You'd never guess, but I cat-sit for her nowadays."

"Get out," she said with a laugh. "Why on earth does she need a cat-sitter? And how many cats does she have? She always seemed like she would have some."

"Because she sees her boyfriend who's in a nursing home on Tuesdays and Thursdays," he said with a grin. "And guess."

"Four."

"Too low."

" _What?_ "

"Guess!"

"Five?"

"Scully, that's the most boring second guess you could possibly have."

"Six."

"Uh-uh."

"Eight?"

"Okay, if you'd continued in the same boring pattern-"

"Seven!"

"Yes, seven whole cats," he said with a laugh. "And I get to keep them company every Tuesday and Thursday."

"That's fantastic," she said, shaking her head with a smile. "I'm glad your social life's improved."

"You have nuns; I have cats," he said blissfully. "We can't choose our friends. Or was that family?"

She smiled, shook her head once more.

"I really missed you," she admitted again.

"I saw your desktop background," he blurted, cursed himself for not thinking that statement through.

Though her cheeks grew pink, and though she looked away from him in some kind of embarrassment, she nonetheless said, "That picture always makes me smile."

"Me too," he said, and though he figured it was a lie, he didn't want it to be one, for there had been a time when that picture always made him smile, and though seeing it as her background had made him uneasy at first, he couldn't deny the rush it gave him knowing that, despite the time apart and despite their messier fights, she still admired him.

"I don't want this to be hard," she said, facing him once more.

"I'm not sure we have a choice in whether or not it is," he said honestly.

"I wish we did," she said, "as naive as that may be."

"Yeah," he said, nodding both to her and to himself. "Me too."

He took one deep breath, then two, then three; outside of her apartment, he could hear the sounds of the city, everyone rushing about on this Saturday night and heading on to whatever party or after-party they could find. In his mind, he pictured them on Saturdays of yore in this city, remembered how it felt to take her out on the town for the evening in recent years, remembered their long-ago casual and nearly-pajamaed trips to that fantastic Indian place three blocks from her apartment in Georgetown. Momentarily, he wondered if that fundraiser was still going on, if rich people were still milling about and making things up about a cause that they cared about only for what their support made them feel for themselves. He much preferred the city's version of silence here with her, preferred her quiet company and the warmth of her body so close to him.

To hell with it all. If she wanted to see a marriage counselor, then so be it. He would divulge every last part of their lives, even the confidential ones, if it meant that this feeling became normal again, that this feeling was a part of their days together once more. Though this feeling had never been truly _normal,_  he still wanted it to be a part of his everyday life as it used to be. He wanted to cook her dinner again, to kiss her when she came home from work, to read alongside her in bed until one or both of them tired. He wanted the little things and the big things, and if he needed to lay himself bare in order to do so, then he would.

As he went to say that aloud, she reached her left hand toward him, leaned onto her right side as she traced his cheek with her thumb; he swallowed his words while she held his face in her palm, while her ring rested warmly against his cheek. In her eyes was a question, one he couldn't answer, so against what he figured would be her better judgement, she closed her eyes and kissed him, her lipstick searing his skin, her mouth warm and bitter with wine and so familiar that he wanted to weep. Tentatively, he leaned toward her, steadied himself with a hand on her hip, kissed her with a fervor she matched. As she pulled back, their foreheads touching while her hand still framed his face and while he pulled her closer, she breathed hotly, tried not to meet his eyes.

"You're drunk," he surmised, his mind going dark and his body cowering in regret.

"No," she said, shaking her head and meeting his gaze, "I don't think I am."

"You are."

"I'm not, and it wouldn't matter either way."

"Scully, it _does_  matter."

With ferocity, she met his eyes, said, "I've wanted to do that all night. Since before the champagne."

His heart pounding, his mind going deer-in-headlights blank, he tried earnestly to find words, managed, "Oh."

"I'm not drunk," she insisted.

"Okay," he said, believing her.

"Was it alright?"

"What?"

"The..."

She tilted her head, tried not to label what had just happened, so he sobered, said, "Oh. Yeah."

"Mulder, was it alright?"

"I mean, yeah," he said awkwardly. "It was good."

"No, was it _alright?_ " she insisted, and finally, he caught on; _did you want it too?_

"Yeah," he said quickly. "It was alright."

"Okay," she said, huffing a sigh of relief. "Do you want to-"

"Yeah, yeah," he gave, then kissed her again, took her by surprise.

Thankfully, she smiled into his lips, pressed her knee toward him as he pulled her closer. His mind quiet and her body pliant against his, he found that maybe her mattress wasn't so bad.

* * *

When he woke, he checked the clock on her bedside, saw that it was just past two in the morning; alongside him, he found her space in bed to be empty, the duvet and sheets pulled back, so groggily, he leaned out of bed, braced himself for whichever mature - not in the fun way - conversation they were about to have.

He walked past the doors to the bathroom - open, so he knew she wasn't in there - and the office, and as he heard her voice in the living room, he slowed, eavesdropped in hope of knowing what was wrong. However, she murmured too greatly for him to understand, so he walked into the living room, found her sitting back on the couch, her cell phone in hand.

"I'm really sorry," she said into the phone, then with two French-manicured fingers motioned for him to sit down. For now, the only light in the room was that from beyond the two living room windows, both of which looked out on the city.

Sitting down alongside her, he watched as she curled up against him, as she sighed with relief that made his heart soar.

"I mean, I've covered for you three times now," she insisted into the phone. "A fourth is kind of pushing it."

She lifted his arm up, wrapped it around her body; his skin felt illuminated, as though her touch had sparked something within him that only the comfort of another could supply.

"Call Menzer," she said into the line. "He's probably not busy."

Tentatively, he leaned down to kiss her messy scalp, and by her instinctive smile, he knew was correct to do so.

"I'm sorry," she reiterated. "I went out tonight. I've been drinking, so I can't drive, and I sure as hell can't work. I can't cover for you."

At some comment on the call, Scully rolled her eyes, apologized once more, and hung up.

As she set her phone down on the arm of the couch, he asked, "Am I keeping you from work?"

"No, not at all," she said, shaking her head. "Kara has an E.R. shift she can't do because her kid is sick. Again."

"And you're always the first person she calls?"

"Yeah, because I always cover for her," she explained. "Not tonight, though."

He smirked, said, "I'm honored."

She gave him a look, said, "Don't let it get to your head."

In his arms, she breathed deeply, relaxed against him; as she pressed her forehead against his neck like she always used to, he traced his fingers over her bare hip, both remembered and memorized the feeling of her warm skin against his.

Leaning back and looking up at him, she asked quietly, "Are you having second thoughts?"

"No," he said, shaking his head; admittedly, he should have taken a moment to think that statement through, but then again, his answer wouldn't have changed.

"Okay," she said, nodding toward him.

"Is this going to change anything?" he asked, his thumbnail running along her side.

"I think so," she said, meeting his gaze. "I want it to."

"Me too."

"We can work everything else out," she said, a confirmation for them both. "I know it's atypical to think this way, but maybe this part is the hard part. We could be as healthy as can be on paper, but if we didn't have _this,_  I don't know if we'd ever find it again."

"I don't think we'll lose it anytime soon," he shrugged.

She huffed a laugh, said, "Speak for yourself. And your not-so-saggy ass."

"What, you think I won't be attracted to you when we're old and grey?" he laughed. "If you're thinking that, then your head's far up your own saggy ass."

At that, she smiled softly, her cheeks warm with a blush he felt proud to have supplied.

"Good to know," she filed away.

"Do you think we'll get any sleep on that awful mattress?" he asked.

"Probably not," she said.

"Should we try?"

She took a deep breath, let it out in a sigh.

"Probably."

"Okay," he said, then tapped his lap, a movement that elicited only confusion from her. "Oh, come on."

Finally, she caught on, moved closer into his arms so that he could scoop her up bridal-style, carry her to bed in a way she so rarely obliged. Walking through the little hallway and back into her bedroom, he stepped over his discarded suit and her bound-to-wrinkle dress; though he thought it would be chivalrous to hang them both, he dreaded being away from her for the time it would take him to put their clothes into her closet, and plus, he'd never been able to hang her dresses properly, especially not the strapless ones. As he lay her down on her side of the bed, she tugged him closer once more, gave him the most chaste kiss she'd offered all night.

"Are you going to be here in the morning?" she asked, her eyes intent on him.

"Do you want me to be here?"

"It's your choice."

" _I_  want to be here."

"Good," she said, nodding as she let go of him.

After he climbed in on his side of the bed, he curled in toward her, draped an arm over her stomach as he breathed her in. She leaned over to kiss his forehead, pulled the duvet up on both of them.

To the sounds of her deep breaths - and despite the mattress - he fell softly to sleep.

* * *

Turning onto his stomach, he took a jagged breath, a crick in his back making its presence well known; whatever model mattress this was, he hoped that most bedmakers would blacklist it and insist on any other kind. However, the ache eased as he opened his eyes, the bedroom lit from the unshaded - they hadn't exactly prioritized pulling the blinds down - window, the room cast in a warm yellow tone that snuggled him further beneath the blankets and made him thankful that he had nowhere else to be.

And across from him, she lay on her side, her bare back facing him; he traced the outline of her tattoo with his eyes, watched the slow shift of her back as she breathed, and as he'd done so many times, he counted each of her larger freckles, remembered how he used to kiss them all in the morning while she lounged on her stomach and insisted _five more minutes._ Softly, he smiled to himself, the silent moment so serene and timeless that he hoped she would sleep in and let him stay entranced for a while longer. However, she shifted beneath his gaze, so he exhaled deeply, watched as she leaned onto her back and turned her head toward him.

At the sight of him, her lips involuntarily curled up, making relief flow through his veins.

"Morning," she said in a tired, throaty husk; he felt his muscles tense with adoration, his breath hitch in thankfulness, at how very normal this morning was. Years ago, this could've been any morning of any day, making the moment now matter in ways he couldn't begin to describe.

He edged closer to her, rested his forehead against her shoulder while she laughed lightly, an out-loud grin.

"No church?" he mumbled against her skin.

"Not this week," she said. "I told my mother I'd go out and see her, though."

He straightened, asked, "Am I keeping you from that?"

"No, not at all," she said quickly. "I never set a time beyond _Sunday afternoon._ "

"Okay," he said coolly while trying not to show how relieved that left him.

She draped her arm onto his pillow, ran her fingers through his messy hair.

"It's chilly in here," she commented, her hands soft and relaxing against his scalp.

Wrapping his arm around her stomach, he pulled himself closer to her, palmed her side in his hand while he leaned up to kiss her neck. Softly, she smiled, muttered, "Better."

He traced her ribs with his thumb, kissed along her jaw while she sighed a long-held breath. As he nudged his knee between her legs, he kissed the corner of her mouth, teased her lips with his own.

"You missed," she whispered, then met his eyes with a silent ferocity that made his heart pound and his blood surge to all of his extremities, so he pulled himself on top of her, pressed against her as he kissed her with the same ferocity she held in her gaze. At her sharp intake of breath, he grinned.

"Better?" he asked as she took his face gingerly into both of her hands, rubbed her thumbs along his cheeks while he slowly breathed.

Over the years, she'd gained laughter lines - his fault - and crow's feet - obviously his fault - but the lines were more Monet or van Gogh than Pollock, soft and beautiful and only making her more stunning; her freckles were fading, autumnal sunsets favoring the paleness of her skin. However, her eyes remained unchanged throughout the years, their brightness reminding him of treacherous Vineyard seas during a storm and of a cool blue pond he used to swim in during agonizingly hot summer days as a child. When she held him under her gaze, he felt both meditative and terrified, relaxed and enticed; he felt she could see through him and into his soul, a place in which she'd taken residence and left her toothbrush by the bathroom sink, and though such closeness terrified him, it made his fingers and toes tingle with excitement as well. His mind blanking and his breaths slowing, he watched as she watched him, as she swallowed repressed thoughts, as she blinked away what frightened him to think were tears.

Sobering, he asked, "What's wrong?"

Beneath him, she shook her head, her eyes filled with a silent honesty that made his heart clench.

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," she said as she kissed him again.

* * *

As he brought her dress onto a hanger, he opened up her closet, found all of her telltale suits and button-downs hanging there; he smiled at the familiarity, hung the dress in the front of the closet. Taking another hanger, he started to hang his suit, threw the pants on top and hoped nothing would fall. He walked over to her dresser, pulled open a drawer, smiled at what he found; a few of his shirts were folded up next to her silk pajamas. Taking out the Knicks tee he'd so missed, he left it on the unmade bed, carded through the drawer until he found one of his own pairs of sweatpants. He placed the pants on the bed as well, figured he would dress in them later, then followed her to the bathroom.

As he knocked twice on the door, he could hear the water on in the shower, so he softly entered, glanced over at where she stood. Though the shower itself was small, it seemed large in comparison to her naked body, her back turned to him and steam blurring the glass of the stall. He opened its door, eyed her tattoo while she craned her neck around to look at him. Bare-skinned and pink with warmth, she looked so much like herself that he wanted to cry and kiss her and never leave her, not ever. However, she turned away from him before he could say any of that, then picked up an all-too-familiar bottle of shampoo.

Handing him the bottle, she faced away from him, the warm spray darkening her hair, a little bruise visible on her neck while she combed her fingers through her long tresses. He squeezed shampoo onto his palm, rubbed the liquid between his hands before he brought them gingerly to her scalp. Softly, he massaged his fingers through her hair, listened as she slowly exhaled at his touch. She relaxed her shoulders, the muscles there quieting beneath the water; despite the cramped shower, he felt comfortable here as he washed her hair through muscle-memory, the motions so practiced that he could do them in his sleep. While she rinsed, he picked up her bottle of conditioner, accidentally bumped his elbow to her hip in the process, gave a quiet _oh, sorry_  within the steam. As he traced his fingers through her hair once more, brought conditioner primarily to her ends and then worked his way up, she closed her eyes; he noticed a little smudge of mascara beneath her lashes, and as he went to say something about it, she turned and looked up at him, his hands letting go of her hair.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him closer so that their chests were flush; awkwardly, he stood stalk-still, then eased around her, held her in the steaming warmth, tucked her head beneath his chin in the way she used to love. He felt her lashes flutter shut against his skin, felt her heart beat slowly and steadily, felt the way her breaths calmed with his touch.

Closing his eyes, he held here there until the water went cold.

* * *

"Look these over."

She passed her iPad to him, a Google search open on its browser. As he sat at the little kitchen table, he watched her walk back to the stovetop, watched as she cracked two eggs with practiced ease. On a pan, she fried bacon, and on a skillet, she cooked an egg over easy, another sunny side up. As if on cue, two pieces of wheat bread popped out of the toaster; sliced Granny Smith apples and brie to share sat in front of him on the table. Looking over the search, he reached for an apple-slice, stilled when he saw the results.

_Search: marriage counselors near Alexandria, VA_

"I figured we should look for people closer to the house," she explained with her back to him as she flipped an egg.

Three names were listed, two of whom were within twenty miles - a comparatively short distance - of the house. From the two, he liked _Mary Decker_  more by name alone; plus, she was accredited far beyond the other man listed as a practitioner.

"Can you fit this into your work schedule?" he asked for lack of a better question; though he didn't know what to say, he couldn't bear silence about such a topic.

"Yeah," she said as she plated their breakfasts. "We may have to go at early or late hours, but I'll make it work. _We'll_  make it work."

"Okay," he said as he exhaled.

"How do Wednesdays sound?" she asked as she set his plate down in front of him, her rings glittering in the morning light.

"Great," he said with a nod while his eyes followed her hands. "Why Wednesdays?"

"Well, Mondays are popular for surgeries, I'm always exhausted on Fridays, and you can't do Tuesdays or Thursdays."

"Why not?" he asked as he poked at his egg's yolk, tore a piece of his toast to sop it up.

With a deer-in-headlights look, she stared at him, said, "The cats."

_Oh._

"Right," he said, remembering that he'd told her about his cat-sitting duties.

Though he could feel difference between them, though he could sense change in the air, he nonetheless staggered at the ease of the morning; while she nibbled at her breakfast, spread brie on her toast, he listened to her talk about the surgery she was going to assist on tomorrow, one in which they would shape ears for a child born without them. Apparently, a plastic surgeon, an E.N.T., a neurologist, and countless other specialized doctors had consulted on the case - she cut a piece of bacon, chewed, continued - and the surgery itself would be livestreamed on the internet. Who would have thought of such a thing? As she talked with her hands, he followed her ring, then shook himself so that he would look at her, all of her, instead. According to a new scientific journal, a team of women were working to cure Ebola with a vaccine, and Scully couldn't imagine working in such conditions, fearing for your life at work every day even though the utmost care was taken in regard to the pathogens there.

"I know it's for the greater good, but, I mean, what does it feel like to go to work knowing you may not survive the day?" she asked naively though he knew the feeling all too well, though she'd experienced it too, though he'd spent dark evenings imagining a _Grey's Anatomy_  situation - any one of their many tragedies - occurring at her hospital and taking her from this world far too early. He gave a shrug, a _that's hard to imagine_ , and let her carry on about how Kara, the woman on the phone last night, kept abandoning her shifts in order to care for her sick kids even though her no-good husband lacked employment of his own. According to Scully, the guy sleazed his way around town on most evenings, so out of respect, Scully would take Kara's shifts when necessary, but now, things were getting out of hand. Then, she listed off what groceries she needed to pick up, told him about how she'd intended to bake some pumpkin cookies to bring to her mother's, reminded him that it was _feel bad_  and not _feel badly_  because _feel_  had been a linking verb in the case he'd used.

He picked up her plate and carried it to the sink, so softly, she said, "Thank you."

"No, thank _you,_ " he said as he rinsed off their silverware. "Breakfast was delicious."

"I'm glad," she said.

Placing their dishes on their drying rack, he turned back toward her, his Knicks tee shirt sprinkled with sink-water. She wore those new tortoiseshell glasses of hers as she looked down at the iPad, as she inspected Mary Decker's LinkedIn profile; wearing a worn-in grey cashmere sweater and soft jeans, she looked like herself, like the woman who would come out onto their porch in March and watch while he inspected the spinach crops in their garden, like the woman he would wrap up in his arms after she came home on a winter's evening, like the woman he realized he'd fallen for only after she showed him scans that proved she was dying. He wanted to push back the damp hair on her neck and kiss her there while her breath went heavy, or to paw underneath her sweater to see if her skin was as soft as the cashmere even though he already knew it was, or to break out the Scrabble board and spend the rest of their morning at her kitchen table throwing _quixotic_  and _antidisestablishmentarianism_  - her favorite but one they'd yet to play - back and forth. Or maybe they could just sit on the couch in silence, her head on his lap, his fingers in her hair; he didn't mind what they were doing so long as they were together.

But it was naive to overstay his welcome, and she had a surgery tomorrow, and she'd made plans with her mother, so he returned to the table, forced maturity on himself for the moment. Someday, this apartment would be a simple memory of theirs while they lounged in their far-more-comfortable bed in their real home, but for now, this was where she lived, a place where he acted merely as a guest.

"Does she sound good to you?" he asked of the profile as he sat down at the table once more.

"Yes, very," Scully said, then turned off the iPad. "I'll call tomorrow morning and see when we can get an appointment."

"And once a week should be often enough?"

"I would imagine so," she said with a nod.

"Okay."

In the silence that followed, he reached his hand out for hers, watched her smile as she wrapped her fingers around his; he canted his palm toward the cool sensation of her rings, stared down at their hands for far longer than should have been acceptable. He remembered picking out that ring, how he'd felt so uneducated and blubbering as he asked about karat weighs and other things that Scully never ended up caring about. He remembered the look on her face when she eyed it the morning after he gave it to her, how she brimmed with excitement even though their wedding prospects grew bleaker by the hour, how she held her coffee-cup in her left hand that day just so she could show it off to him even though he'd seen it plenty of times already. He remembered how the diamond shone on their makeshift-honeymoon, a spontaneous weekend in Ocean City; he remembered how she jumped while cold ocean-water flowed over her toes, how her little white dress danced in the beach breeze, how she kissed him with a smile on her lips and with her left hand pressed against his chest in reminder while the tide rolled in around their bare ankles.

And, equally vividly, he remembered how she took her rings, both the engagement and the wedding ring, and threw them at their bedroom wall before she left the house and drove off to places he never asked about, her raging words still ringing in his sedentary ears. He remembered that night, and other similar nights, all too well.

He took a deep breath, looked confidently toward her as he said, "I want this to work out."

Running her thumb over the back of his hand, she nodded to herself, confirmed whatever thought she'd had; as always, he wished he could listen in on what her beautiful mind was saying, but simultaneously, he thanked whatever higher power may exist that he couldn't. She stood slowly, then tugged his hand so that he would join her.

"Let's go home, Mulder."


End file.
